


Spring

by arcalibellorum



Category: The Daevabad Trilogy - S. A. Chakraborty
Genre: DANAHRI RIGHTS, F/M, and im still getting the hang of using ao3, bc it got too long and ao3 cut me off, but tldr??, danahri rights yall, insert elmo fire gif, post-eog, potentially canon compliant (?), put my tag rant in the notes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:34:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25542166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcalibellorum/pseuds/arcalibellorum
Summary: Five years after Dara has left Daevabad, Nahri finds a scroll inscribed with Dara's birthday. Fourth month, thirtieth day, spring. The day is approaching, against her better judgement Nahri crosses the Gozan on the hope that maybe, just maybe, if she summons him on his birthday, Dara might come back to her for just a day.
Relationships: Darayavahoush e-Afshin/Nahri e-Nahid, Darayavahoush e-Afsin/Nahri e-Nahid
Comments: 19
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> listen. can u believe. out of FOURTEEN HUNDRED YEARS WORTH OF BDAYS. this man has probably only gotten to celebrate two dozen of them?? at most?? like what if he doesn't even REMEMBER his bday anymore ;~; bc its been so damn long.. when was the last time he had a happy moment w a loved one??? when was the last time he DIDNT WANT TO ACTIVELY DIE?? like shannon please let him live let him have a little emotional healing!! as a treat ;~; 
> 
> i also refuse to believe that nahri and dara are never reunited post eog. i still need them to have an actual conversation that consists of more than desperate eye contact during an all-out civil war. i know we get a goodbye but i really want them to sit and talk and reminisce and really work through everything thats between them. nahri has so much development in koc and dara doesn't witness any of that. i want nahri to learn exactly how manizheh got into daras head. i want dara to explain his thought processes and why he did what he did. i want nahri to tell dara about her shafit heritage and the truth about her parents and just JFKLDAFKLJ LET THEM TALK LET THEM BE TOGETHER 
> 
> BRING DARA BACK TO DAEVABAD 18k9 OR WHATEVER YEAR IT IS BY THE END OF EOG
> 
> but anywho. some cute bday angst and fluff for now jdfklaskj hope u enjoy :3

It’s his birthday. Nahri doesn’t find out from hearing others say it is, or from the celebrations that her people throw on the namedays of their beloved Daeva heroes of old— while Anahid’s life is marked by festivities, the day of her Afshin’s birth and death are solemn days in their tribe’s history.

No. She finds out while digging through Temple scrolls, while researching the ancient lineage of her family, tracing the lines and names of grandmothers, second cousins, and great-uncles she never knew.

There— a thin silver line on a faded scroll that happened to fall open in her arms— Artash e-Afshin, Mahine e-Afshin, linked, next to Tamima: Darayavahoush e-Afshin. 470 AD, fourth month, thirtieth day.

Nahri didn’t know why seeing the date inked out had been such a shock to her. Surely before he’d been turned into a Nahid weapon, before he’d become the Scourge of Qui-zi, Dara had been an ordinary man. An ordinary boy. Wide-eyed— dark eyed, instead of that striking emerald green, innocent, rocked to sleep against his mother’s arm. Monster that he was to the Geziri and the rest of Daevabad, Dara too had once been a baby. Born amidst his mother’s cries while his father would have paced, waiting desperately outside for the sound of his son’s first breadth.

470\. Fourth month. Thirtieth day.

How fitting strangely fitting it was, that he had been born in the same season she'd been named after-- spring. The date was fast approaching, and though Nahri knew that Dara was long gone and drifting with the winds as he scoured the human world for slave vessels, a part of her wanted to see him, to speak to him, spend the day with him so that she could… could what?

Nahri went cold as if someone had dumped a bucket of ice water on her. Half the city still clamored for his blood, the other half silent only because they were dead. Dara’s legacy amongst the Daevas was… half god, half monster, and even then it seemed as if her people were still struggling to define who and what Dara was, just as they were grappling with the dark truths of Manizheh’s legacy— the Nahid legacy. Despite giving up the shedu throne Nahri was still beholden to her city and her people, and that… that duty? It left no room in her heart for the handsome, bloodstained, grinning warrior she’d fallen in love with.

Ten years. A marriage to Muntadhir. Her people’s safety. Her city’s blood. After all that… why did her heart still skip a beat at the very sight of Dara’s name?

The walk back from the Temple, and Nahri was still thinking of him, the nights in the desert as they flew through a diamond-strewn sky. The pile of paperwork at her office in the infirmary, and she heard, “Little thief.” Her bed, empty, cold, and hopelessly wide as she thought back to the endless echo of: “I’m coming back, Nahri. You’re my Banu Nahida.”

Another night spent dreaming of emerald eyes, and Nahri went to Jamshid, because... because screw it. This wasn’t like ten years ago when she’d been a helpless lost shafit girl, blindly bleeding her wrists to call Dara back as she’d been covered in his ashes. He was alive. He was out there. And though Nahri didn’t know how she could justify it to her tribe or to herself, she wanted to see him. After all the history and sacrifice and war, didn't she deserve one day? Didn't Dara?

And so Nahri handed Jamshid Suleiman’s seal, which Jamshid took without a word. He could have asked, had the right to ask. She was his sister. Dara had nearly killed Jamshid, actually killed his mother that he’d never known. Had Jamshid stopped her, Nahri would have turned back and headed to the infirmary. Tried to bury herself in patients and work. But he hadn’t, because as he’d slipped the black pearl ring onto his fingers, Jamshid’s dark eyes seemed to flash with something— pity, maybe? Understanding? At the very least, an absence of judgement?

Because heaven knew that if anyone could relate to complicated love, it was Jamshid who still loved Muntadhir, despite the fact that Manizheh had killed Ghassan, Manizheh had let Saffiyeh die— for him— that Muntadhir had orchestrated Kaveh’s gruesome death. The bloodshed went on for centuries.

And yet, still, somehow, love.

Nahri crossed the Gozan.

It was less than an hour before she was sitting in the same cave overlooking the riverbank that she’d shared with Dara years ago, with a warm dish of lentils and rice cooking before her— an attempt at replicating the meal Dara had conjured up during their first days together. The smell took her back to Daevastana’s wilderness, the sprawling heat of the desert— even the rukh’s cries, the sensation of pressing her hand against a still and fading heart.

Had he found a slave vessel yet? Was he moving around searching, on the hunt, or was he being hunted, running from the ifrit or marid or vengeance-minded Geziri assassin— or shafit, or Tukharistani, or even Daeva? He’d written through Zaynab’s letters that he was planning on trying Egypt, and Nahri had asked him to visit Yaqub, both the old man and the older Daeva lonely at the loss of a friend. Had he ventured into the dirt-blood overrun human world? Was he still mourning? Would he ever stop mourning?

Nahri couldn’t take the wondering. That was all she’d done for nearly five years. She couldn’t keep doing this any more. Nahri was contemplating the cooking knife before her, idly tracing the veins of her wrists, wondering if she should draw blood and sing a zar song, just like she had so many years ago. The skin would split. Magic would well up along with her blood, a dark berry rising to bloom. What was a little pain? If Nahri had learned anything about what being a Nahid meant, it was that Nahid magic didn’t heal her. It just increased her ability to survive pain.

One cut. And maybe she’d hear his—

“If you were going to summon me so casually,” a low, familiarly musical voice said as it pierced the silent air, “then I’m beginning to think that perhaps our goodbye needn’t have been so heart-wrenching and dramatic.”

Nahri whirled.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE PEOPLE HAVE SPOKEN HERE IS CHAPTER TWO!! 
> 
> friends in the daevabad discord have convinced me to make this a multichapter, and tbh, it didn't take much convincing bc the amount of mental real estate danahri has been taking up since eog..... wack :) 
> 
> translation: im still emo *insert crying cat jpeg* 
> 
> this chapter was supposed to cover their whole initial reunion, but i kept writing, and it kept getting longer, and i didn't want to post a 3k word chapter because i like to keep my chapters in nice and neat chunks (even tho it's a totally irrational impulse hahaha) so here you have a cut up, slightly shorter, chapter 2! 
> 
> it gets a bit heavier on the angst and Dramatique Tension in chapter 3, so here's the lighter beginning to danahri's reunion and some Soft for us all. enjoy! 
> 
> and thank you to the lovely people who commented, it really made my day 🥰🥰🥰

And there he was, filling the air like he’d been molded from it, appearing out of the ether before her like lightning, like fire.

Dara.

He was a vision, which shouldn’t have been Nahri’s first thought because Dara was dressed in nondescript traveling robes, dusty and desert-worn. There was nothing of the Afshin that looked like a war god, like death, the stony general that had brought down Manizheh, the greatest of their line—after Anahid, save Nahri.

Instead, there was the daeva warrior she’d met in Cairo, night-dark hair framing the elegant features of his sharply handsome face, the strong cut of his jaw and nose and chin the same she’d seen in her dreams on quiet starless nights.  
And those eyes—emerald green, almost too bright to look at—they met hers as he smiled, features softening, and then his hair shifted to reveal the Afshin mark on his brow as he bowed, joining his hands together.

Nahri’s throat constricted.

Dara stood and studied her face, but Nahri couldn’t be bothered to think about the dirtied hem of her chador, the electrum ring laid with lapis she’d taken to wearing, a gift from her grandfather, or the dagger at her waist that glittered with carnelians and opals—not when she was noticing the small changes to his appearance that betrayed how well his years away had treated him. When Nahri had first seen him in Cairo, he’d been armed to the teeth, yet he wore no bow, no quiver, no khanjar or sword. No scourge.

Her chest ached. He looked well.

Dara grinned. “May the fires burn brightly for you, beloved Banu Nahida.”

Nahri blinked. The traditional epithet for a Banu Nahida or Baga Nahid was blessed, not… She shook her head. “I— I didn’t think—”

Dara let out a soft laugh, and Nahri’s heart skipped a beat. “What, no sharp-tongued retort?” he asked, eyes glinting with gentle mirth. “I never thought I’d see you rendered speechless at anything, much less the sight of me. There’s no war, no marid, no peri. It’s just you and me, little thief.”

Nahri finally managed to collect herself, bristling. “Forgive me for being a little shocked at your sudden reappearance. I was under the impression that I would never see you again.” Her voice broke.

At that, the teasing mirth faded from Dara’s face as he crossed the space between them and touched her cheek. “I promised I would find a way back, didn’t I?”

“You also told me to tell my grandchildren about your quest to retrieve slave vessels,” Nahri said, raising her brows. “That hardly implies that I was ever going to see you again in my lifetime.”

Dara hesitated. “It is what I deserve.”

“And me? Do I deserve to live out the rest of my life wondering where you are, whether you’re lonely, or hurt, or grieving? Do I deserve to have to say goodbye to you so soon, when you have millennia and I only have a handful of centuries? Don’t I deserve you?”

Dara looked as if he’d been punched in the gut. His face was blank, eyes stunned—with horror? Resignation? Disgust?

“Forget what I said,” Nahri said, scrambling to undo the awful emptiness in Dara’s face her words had wrought. The small hope she’d cradled for years guttered in her chest. “I’m sorry. You’re free. I’d never tie you down to Daevabad or a Nahid again, not after everything you’ve suffered. I know you want to earn your place with your family, and I am so happy that you’re alive. That you get to make that choice.” She reached for his hand and squeezed. “I didn’t mean that.”

“Nahri, I—”

“Sit,” she said, turning away as she winced. Fought to get her emotions under control. “Sit,” Nahri repeated, facing Dara again as she offered him the most convincing smile she could muster. “Eat. I want to eat a meal with you.”

Dara opened his mouth to argue when he caught sight of the food she’d laid out, lentils and onions still warming in an enchanted pot. “Is that—”

“Your mother’s dish? What you made for me on our way to Daevabad?” Nahri’s smile was truer then, as she settled on the ground and reached for a piece of bread. “Yes.”

Finally Dara sat, drifting closer to her and the food as Nahri scooped out his portion. “I didn’t know you could cook.”

“I learned from my grandfather.”

“Grandfather?” Dara repeated, shock cutting through the awkwardness of the moment before.

Nahri grinned at his shock. “Yes, grandfather.” Her eyes shone and she laughed. She couldn’t help herself. “I have a grandfather, Dara. We drink tea together and play chess and tell stories, about my life in Egypt and his memories of my mother. He visits me in the infirmary. He spoils the children with sweets and comes with me to the Temple. You’ve missed a lot.”

“Tell me about your last few years,” Dara said softly, smile tentative. “I want to hear about your life.”

So Nahri served their food, Dara conjured up two glasses of date wine, and slowly she drew for him an image of the life she had built for herself in Daevabad.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have faced canon and walked backward into danahri hell 
> 
> afajdlksjaklAJFDKLAFJSAJ BY GOD I WILL RETCON THE NAHLI PROPOGANDA IN EOG BY GOD!!! ITS BEEN A MONTH BUT I AM NOT OKAY DO NOT TOUCH ME!!! 
> 
> anyway, this one's for astarisms, who fed me with her tears and boundless encouragement, and was the first person i screamed with about danahri way back when cob came out. hope you enjoy!! :3

Dara was an attentive listener, as he’d always been. Even when she’d regaled him with tales of her human life while they traveled together—riveting escapades in her view and deeply illegal crimes in his—he’d marked the details of her stories, asked questions, cared.

Nahri told him about the new government she and Ali were spearheading, the shafit reparations that Kartir, Ali, Subha, and a handful of other shafit elders had proposed, all the new Nahid sciences she was learning in her infirmary, Jamshid at her side. Mishmish, whose fruit consumption alone kept several farms in business, and the destruction of the Geziri, shafit, Sahrayn, Tukharistani, and Ayaanle quarters that had been used as an opportunity to rebuild Daevabad without walls and hard tribal lines.

At that, Dara’s smile faded. “There’s still rebuilding to be done,” he said quietly. Nodded, almost as if to himself. “It takes twice as long to build than to destroy. And our people have long memories.”

Nahri took his hand. “Slow progress is progress that lasts. We’re getting there, Dara. The tribes are beginning to unite. That’s a good thing.”

“They’re probably uniting in their hatred of me,” Dara said drily, as he looked down at their joined hands. “A common enemy does wonders for internal cohesion.”

“Dara,” Nahri said. “It’s…” Her stomach churned.

“Ignore that,” Dara said with a quick smile. “I don’t want to use the second chance I’ve been given wallowing about the justified hatred of the people I’ve hurt. It’s only natural that they feel that way… I’m not naïve about the reality of what I’ve done, Nahri. There are consequences. I have to live with that.”

Dara cleared his throat. “How is Irtemiz?”

“Well. Jamshid adores her, after she accompanied him once to the archery fields. She’s intending to start training Daeva youths to use bows—most of our tribe weren’t permitted to train with weapons under Qahtani rule. There’s a whole generation of young Daevas eager to learn what they couldn’t in the past.”

I’m thrilled to hear that.”

And the earnestness in Dara’s voice, as Nahri let him glimpse the life she was leading, the better future she was building, made her want to reach out. Run her hands through his hair. Pull him close.

Nahri coughed, sure she was blushing, and took a long sip of the date wine, crinkling her nose.

Dara laughed. “Still can’t hold your drink?”

“Oh, I’ve improved plenty since I came to Daevabad. I’ve simply been spoiled by all the vintages Muntadhir and Jamshid bring out when I visit for dinner.”

“Muntadhir,” Dara mused, rolling over each syllable. “How _is_ the honorable emir?”

Nahri raised her brows. “Why do you ask? It’s not like you had any love for him.”

Dara hesitated. “I know it was arranged, but you _were_ married for five years. At your age, that’s not an insignificant amount of time.”

Nahri bristled. How could that familiar, well-meaning brand of condescension be so infuriating yet endearing at the same time? “What are you insinuating, Dara? I’ll have you know that I wasn’t a lovestruck fool in that marriage, I was a grieving and broken-hearted woman trying her damned best to survive.” Nahri took a deep breath.

“In any event, he’s not the emir anymore, and he’s the happiest I’ve ever seen him. Jamshid is good for him, and when given the chance, and with the right person, he’s a man with a lot of love to give.”

“So there were no… regrets? To your divorce?” Dara winced as if he didn’t want to say what was next. “I’m not blind, Nahri. Muntadhir’s handsome, and charming, and he’s not responsible for the butchery of innocents. It’s understandable that you might have fallen for a more… suitable match.”

Nahri felt the sudden urge to slap him. How could he be so— “I sold myself in marriage to Ghassan’s son,” she said. “I did it so that he’d stop hanging Daevas on the palace walls. If Muntadhir isn’t married to me any longer, and if we never had a child, trust me when I say that there is a reason for that.” She drained the rest of her wine. “Muntadhir didn’t even touch me like that for a year. Even he knew that I was… even he knew.”

“Alizayd, then?” Dara pressed. “It was never difficult to see which Qahtani prince wanted you.”

“Why are you so curious about finding out if I have feelings for Muntadhir or Ali?” Nahri snapped, frustration overflowing.

“Nahri, I—”

“Why do you think that I would have fallen for the first rich and charming man who gave me the time of day? You said it so easily and even now I can barely look you in the eye and… Ten years and I’m still here and—”

Dara’s eyes widened.

“When you said you loved me,” Nahri whispered, tears brimming, “do you think it was easy to hear that?”

“Nahri,” Dara breathed, “I’m sorry. If knowing that I love you caused you pain, then please forget it. I know you would want to be free of me.”

“Shut up, Dara. I don’t want that.”

“Then?” he asked, cradling her face in his hands. He leaned forward, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “What do you want?”

“I want you to—”

_Stay._

The word was on the tip of her tongue, a breath and a second away. 

Nahri wanted to say it, to throw herself into Dara’s arms and ask him to come back, to reconsider, to stay with her in Daevabad… but could she?

_Could_ Nahri ask Dara to stay, when after everything that had happened, he’d told her goodbye and chose to walk away? Because choice—that was where it had all gone wrong. The choice that Dara had denied Nahri by dragging her and Ali onto Daevabad’s lake. The choice that Dara had been denied by her Nahid ancestors fourteen hundred years ago when they’d sent him, a child, to do their dirty work in Qui-zi. The choice that Manizheh had denied Dara by first bringing him back from the dead in an ifrit body, and bringing him back again, resurrecting him at her own whim before committing the ultimate sin of their people and enslaving him once again.

For all the Afshins were supposed to be a revered bloodline in her tribe’s noble families, Nahri couldn’t help but think that the devotion Afshins were raised to have for her family had been a mistake, a flaw in Anahid’s legacy. To keep young Afshins uneducated and illiterate, to strongarm an Afshin father into letting his son be sent into battle, to consign a child to commit one of the worst crimes in their people’s history… it was difficult to condone Afshin loyalty to Nahid rule, not when it was so painfully clear that in enslaving Dara, Manizheh had only furthered a long-established perversion. Not when it had led to so much blood.

_Stay._

It would be so easy.

Except that Nahri was a Nahid, the Banu Nahida, and any request she made Dara was colored by the fact that his family had sworn to serve hers, and Dara had been so devotedly loyal to her family that he’d let them destroy him. Would anything she asked of him be a choice? She couldn’t divorce what they were from who they were… could she?

So the question wasn’t whether or not Nahri could ask Dara to stay. It was whether she had the right to ask at all.

And yet, despite it all, still the word was spring, blooming, awakening:

“Stay.” 


End file.
